I have this goofy roomate. His name's Walter, but I like to call him Walty or Walt the Stalt. He hates those names, of course, but his reaction to such appellations just further eggs me on. Anyway, I've lived with Walty for almost two years now. The other night I had this dream where Walt the Stalt changed his name to Fritz. So I smashed his skull in with a Tonka truck.

--Francis "Franny" Potter

One night I dreamt that Mr. Simmons, my high school english teacher, dropped by to give me an idea for a short story. That, and some Nutter Butters. The story was about a law professor who gets knocked-off late one night shortly after final exams. The murder weapon was a golf club.

"What club?" I asked.
"What difference does it make?" demanded Mr. Simmons. "A club's a club!"
"That is where you are wrong, my poorly dressed friend. Readers will look for clues in the choice of club. They will ponder the subtle differences between irons and woods, perhaps asking themselves why the murderer chose the four wood, when the eight iron had a much better grip."

Using his tallest digit, Mr. Simmons gave me a visual response. He then grabbed his Nutters and bolted for the door. Just before exiting, he turned and shouted: "I'm glad I gave you that C+ your Junior year, dipshit."

--Holden Rye Catcher

I had this dream where I was suddenly back in the 50's. Maybe early 60's. No, late 50's for sure. Well, maybe 1960. '61 at the latest. Might've been 1962. Anyway, I'm standing there in my buddy Jack's living room, and Jack is doing a face plant big time on the hardwood. And its clear to me that he ain't ever going to rise and shine again. He's done. Finished. Smackerdoodled.

So I'm standing there, watching Jack kiss the floor, when I hear a sound behind me. I turn quickly, popping my shoulder in the process, and the next thing I know I'm staring at a fox. This tall woman in front of me sets the fox down on the floor and then steps into the light, popping her shoulder in the process. Wow! Yowza! Flomfluey! She's amazing; a buxom brunette with baby blues, and legs that ride up as high as an Angel's Flight car. I remember thinking: this is every man's fantasy--second only to being named Superbowl MVP or dunking Diane Sawyer in yogurt on Prime Time Live.

She begins to approach me, mouthing the words "knight to king's four," when suddenly I wake up in a cold sweat humming the theme from M*A*S*H*. Dang. Damn it. Dadgumerlingelbobbybob. Now I'll never get that freakin' song out of my head.

--John "Hawkeye" Trapper